I am fond of telling the story of the words which a distinguished friend of mine used in accepting a hard post of duty. He said:

"I do not think I am fit for this post. But my friends say I am, and I trust them. I shall take it, and when I am in it, I shall do as well as I can."

It is a very grand speech. Observe that it has not one word which is more than one syllable. As it happens, also, every word is Saxon,-there is not one spurt of Latin. Yet this was a learned man, who, if he chose, could have said the whole in Latin.

Home from his journey, Farmer John
Arrived this morning, safe and sound;
His black coat off, and his old clothes on,
"Now I am myself," said Farmer John;

And he thinks, "I'll look around.”
Up leaps the dog: "Get down, you pup!
Are you so glad you would eat me up?”
The old cow lows at the gate, to greet him;
The horses prick up their ears, to meet him.

“Well, well, old Bay!

Ha, ha, old Gray!

Do you get good feed when I'm away?

"You haven't a rib!" says Farmer John;
"The cattle are looking round and sleek;
The colt is going to be a roan,

And a beauty, too; how he has grown!
We'll wean the calf in a week."

Says Farmer John, “When I've been off,
To call you again about the trough,

And watch you and pet you while you drink,
Is a greater comfort than you can think!”
And he pats old Bay,

And he slaps old Gray;

"Ah! this is the comfort of going away.

"For, after all," says Farmer John,

"The best of a journey is getting home:
I've seen great sights, but would I give
This spot and the peaceful life I live,
For all their Paris and Rome?
These hills for the city's stifled air,
And big hotels and bustle and glare,
Land all houses and roads all stones,

That deafen your ears and batter your bones?
Would you, old Bay?

Would you, old Gray?

That's what one gets by going away.

"There Money is king,” says Farmer John,

"And Fashion is queen; and it's mighty queer

To see how sometimes, while the man

Is raking and scraping all he can,

The wife spends, every year,

Enough, you would think, for a score of wives,

To keep them in luxury all their lives!

The town is a perfect Babylon

To a quiet chap," says Farmer John. "You see, old Bay,

You see, old Gray,

I'm wiser than when I went away.

"I've found out this," says Farmer John,-
"That happiness is not bought and sold,
And clutched in a life of waste and hurry,
In nights of pleasure and days of worry;
And wealth is n't all in gold,

Mortgage and stocks, and ten per cent,
But in simple ways and sweet content,
Few wants, pure hopes, and noble ends,
Some land to till, and few good friends,
Like you, old Bay,

And you, old Gray,―

That's what I've learned by going away."

And a happy man is Farmer John,—
O, a rich and happy man is he!
He sees the peas and pumpkins growing,
The corn in tassel, the buckwheat blowing,
And fruit on vine and tree;

The large kind oxen look their thanks

As he rubs their foreheads and strokes their flanks; The doves light round him, and strut and coo: Says Farmer John, "I'll take you, too,

And you, old Bay,

And you, old Gray,

Next time I travel so far away."

J. T. TROWBRIDGE.

Spell and pronounce :—mortgage, trough, foreheads, bustle, pumpkins, worry, clutched, and Babylon.

Give the synonyms of journey, peaceful, comfort, bustle, and content.

Write these contracted forms in full:—I'll, haven't, we'll, I've, that's, it's, I'm, and is n't.

All Williamsburg is in terrific commotion; a moral storm is raging there, and men look about them, measuring one another with doubtful eyes.

This very day the trial comes, for Governor Fauquier will open the House of Burgesses, and officially communicate to that body the intelligence of the passage of the act, and they must at once make submission or throw down the gauntlet of defiance. The commotion ever rises higher, and the great wave, extending from the governor's palace to the capitol, the whole length of Gloucester Street, surges to and fro, and breaks into a foam of cries and furious gestures everywhere.

The bell tolls mournfully, and ever and anon rise shouts that mount to the gathering clouds above.

But now another sound startles the multitude. A cannon roars from the palace, sending its hoarse, somber voice upon the wind, which now begins to rise. And then a drum is heard. The governor has

set out from the palace for the capitol, there to open the House of Burgesses. Before him ride his body-guard with drawn sabers, and the face of the old man is seen through the window of his splendid chariot, which is drawn slowly onward by six glossy horses, tossing their rosetted heads and pushing aside the crowd with their chests.

The crowd mutters inarticulately, gazing sideways at the slowly passing cortège. The governor raises his head, and pointing with his white jeweled finger through the window of the chariot, says to one of the gentlemen with him:

"What is that bell?”

"They began tolling it upon the intelligence this morning, Your Excellency."

The governor shakes his head and sinks back in his chariot, muttering, "Well, well, the die is thrown!"

The crowd mutters too, and with ever increasing rage: the cavalcade is followed by groans and menacing murmurs. So it continues all day; the chariot goes slowly back again under the now threatening sky, and disappears within the palace gates.

Night draws on, lurid and tempestuous; the sky is dark with clouds, from which issue thunder and lightning. The wind moans. The crowd has not moved, and is almost silent, until a light appears approaching from the side of York. They shout then, and surge backward and forward, tumultuously going to meet the light.

Through the press comes slowly onward a wagon, whose six horses foam at the mouth and pant, covered with sweat. They have galloped all the way from Yorktown. The wagon pauses in the middle of the square, and is almost buried beneath the